I didn’t go to your funeral, a year ago
today. I hope you can forgive me.
I can’t remember what excuse I gave myself
for why I didn’t plan to go, but I do remember
how you used to jut your chin
upwards, in some kind of teenage-boy salute;
how every single pair of the jeans you wore
had at least one hole
in at least one knee; how you burned
your legs – the third degree kind of burns –
and got put in a wheelchair
for a month when we were in ninth grade
because you threw kerosene on a bonfire
after the men’s soccer team won 7-2.
We were less than friends and more
than acquaintances, whatever that means. It’s strange
to think about you every day, when I saw you
maybe once after graduation. I can’t help
but wonder why that is, why I mull over your death
like some strange piece of a currency
I’m not familiar with. Your funeral –
would going there have fixed this? And
what does it mean to let go, and
how does one “get closure,” exactly, and…
watching the people you know die –
is that what it means to grow up?
Now, this is a very, very, very rough draft. I had a minor crisis over life and grad school and what in the world I’m going to do with myself tonight…I might have minor crises a lot over writing and such. And anyway I really need to get back in the habit of writing and revising more regularly if I want a shot at a decent portfolio.
Also, don’t worry that I’m psychotically depressed or anything; I swear I’m semi-normal and generally a happy person.